<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Four Notes by Gigabite</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004457">Four Notes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigabite/pseuds/Gigabite'>Gigabite</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Black Friday - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Gen, How Do I Tag, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Semi-infected! Paul</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:01:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26004457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigabite/pseuds/Gigabite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dies Irae: Directly translated to Day of Wrath or Day of Doom but was known these days as the Musical Symbol of Death.<br/>A musical cue to let the audience know that someone was about to die.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Byte here. Just had a weird idea and had to write it out. I have no idea what I'm doing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>~Swing your razor wide, Sweeney. Hold it to the skies…~</em>
</p>
<p>The Ballad of Sweeney Todd played in his earpiece as he made his way- well, as his body made its way to the target, knife in hand. He was just along for the damn ride regardless if he wanted to or not.</p>
<p>
  <em>~Freely flows the blood of those who moralize…~</em>
</p>
<p>The Dies Irae: Directly translated to Day of Wrath or Day or Doom but was known these days as the Musical Symbol of Death. A musical cue to let the audience know that someone was about to die. If only he could warn them.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Paul had awoken, strapped to a table. His mind was quiet for the first time since he blew up the meteorite.</p>
<p>Right before they… took Emma, soldiers in black rushed them down. The Hive gave them the ability to heal anything up to complete destruction of the body (not that he would know or want to know), but bullets to the brain were still bullets to the brain. </p>
<p>A woman in a military uniform soon entered the room and it had been a blur since then. The destruction of the meteorite may have neutered the Hive, but they were all technically still singing zombies. Well, aside from him somehow. Maybe it was the way the bullets entered his brain, or maybe it was the method of his infection followed by said bullets to the brain, but whatever happened, he was somehow himself again. Although he still had the spores inside him, he didn’t have a crazy urge to sing and dance anymore which was an immediate improvement over everyone else that was infected.</p>
<p>Emma was safe. PEIP swooped in just in time, thank god. They wouldn’t tell him much more, but he would have to guess that she was on her way to Colorado by now. Away from the nightmare that was Hatchetfield and Clivesdale. Away from… all of this.</p>
<p>There were many tests. Collection of bodily fluids, samples, all the blue shit that they could ever hope and want for. Physical tests, psych tests, the list went on.</p>
<p>It became apparent that his body had been changed. Although he went to the gym several times a week before the apocalypse happened, he’d never been in better shape before in his life (unlife?). Apparently, the Hive had wanted everyone to produce Tony worthy performances at the drop of a hat. It took him a few days to realize that he hadn’t eaten since before the whole apocalypse started. And after a few nightmares, a lack of sleep hadn’t been a problem either. The glowing eyes he could do without, but it did keep him from crashing into walls on his nightly strolls.</p>
<p>Aside from the whole existential crisis of what it meant to be a human being; Paul was pretty sure he was more or less sane. No, he didn’t like musicals. Yes, he blew up the meteorite. No, he didn’t remember what happened afterwards. Yes, almost everyone he knew was dead or a singing zombie. No, he wasn’t ok with it, fuck off (he didn’t say that last part out loud however; it would have been rude. <strike>Emma might have though...</strike>).</p>
<p>The last few tests, he couldn’t remember. There was something about a radio… Things became foggier once the doctors in white coats were replaced by the doctors in black… He couldn’t hear music in his head anymore, but music still did something... A man in black requested something of him. They wanted to run an experiment… to help develop some sort of cure for the rest of the infected, they said. To keep the ones that he loved (the only one that was left) safe, they had said.</p>
<p>Paul had agreed to it. </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>
  <em>~They all deserve to die! Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why…~</em>
</p>
<p>As he was close enough to strike, those four notes of death roared in his ears on repeat. He watched as his arms turned the target around and stabbed his knife through the target’s stomach, chest, anywhere he could get the knife to go through. The target tried to fight back but succumbed to the blood loss after a minor struggle. A small part of him was still horrified, but the rest of him couldn’t help but be resigned to it all.</p>
<p>They told him that this was for the good of all. That he was almost done with all the experiments. That after he finished his tasks, he'd get to go wherever he wanted. That there was someone in Boulder that kept asking about him.</p>
<p>That really, asking for his permission was more a formality than anything else; he didn't have a choice. </p>
<p>Once he realized the implications of the experiments, he tried to fight it at first. Tried to rip the earpiece off his head, tried to scream or even sing, tried anything to stop this. But they were always one step ahead. They muzzled him like a fucking attack dog, and his body wouldn’t allow him to remove the source of music. His body would carry out the motions of whatever song they played in his ear, regardless of his own objections. If Paul didn’t hate musicals before all of this, he’d loathe them by now.</p>
<p>
  <em>~Watch it close, let it brew, wait...~</em>
</p>
<p>The stabbings slowed to a halt when the song switched into a lullaby. An order came out to search the body. He grabbed an access card and an ID. The ID was plain, looked like the ones he'd seen among the service members around the base. But the access card... he recognized the small symbol in the bottom right hand corner. The target was a soldier, a member of…PEIP? What was going on? Wasn’t he taking orders from PEIP? </p>
<p>Before Paul could consider what was going on, an escape theme (<em>Mission Impossible, was nothing sacred?</em>) blasted in his ear as he heard alarms go off. Looking away from the dead body before him <em>(Sorry, I'm so sorry), </em>he noticed the small camera in the corner of the room. He quickly smashed the camera and then removed the ceiling panels to climb up. He could hear voices below him as he made his way back to report to the man in black.</p>
<p>
  <em>What was he even doing?</em>
</p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Songs referenced:<br/>The Ballad of Sweeney Todd (Opening Title) - Sweeney Todd<br/>Epiphany - Sweeney Todd<br/>Wait - Sweeney Todd<br/>Mission Impossible Theme - Mission Impossible</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I still don't know what I'm doing, but I think I'm figuring it out.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kelly Whitaker had a normal life in Boulder, Colorado. She was a normal woman with a normal routine. She worked on her pot farm in the mornings, would go to a few botany classes in the afternoon, spent her evenings taking Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu courses, and ending the day with a final check of her farm. On Friday evenings, she would head to a quiet bar where she would buy two drinks, and drink one.</p><p>Kelly Whitaker was a very normal person. She did not have an issue with musicals. She did not need to have her back facing a wall at any given time. She did not have nightmares about meteorites or hospitals. She obviously did not have any issues with the color blue, no sirree.</p><p>She also didn’t know anyone from a super-secret military branch. And she sure as hell wouldn’t be spending her afternoon drinking coffee with a person who may have gotten her into the witness protection program.</p><p>Emma Perkins on the other hand…</p><p>Emma had called every day since they moved her to Boulder and had gotten nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. Nothing about Hachetfield. Nothing about a cure. <strike>Nothing about Paul. </strike></p><p>“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.” Colonel Schaeffer had greeted her as she moved to sit across from her.</p><p>“Ok, what the actual fuck. The fucking number you guys gave me doesn’t even ring properly”</p><p>The colonel had the audacity to shrug.</p><p>“My apologies, Kelly. We have been busy as of late. That’s partially why I'm here today.” Schaeffer said as she reached into her bag, pulling out a tablet and a few folders. “I have a few questions to ask you.”</p><p>If there was a time for her to develop laser eyes, now was the time. Instead, Emma scanned her drink for any blue before taking a sip. <em>Keep calm, play nice, and if she plays dumb, unleash the fury of a thousand suns.</em>  </p><p>“Ok… about what?”</p><p>One of the colonel’s folders opened with a medical report and pictures of a familiar black coffee drinking individual. Emma grabbed the folder and quickly scanned through the folder. She was more of a budtender than a scientist, but reading through it, she could feel a weight she didn’t even know she had lift off her shoulders and float off somewhere to Fuckitsville. Paul was alive. Hell, he was better than alive. He wasn’t a fucking musical zombie anymore! She looked up at the colonel with a smile which quickly died from Schaeffer’s stone-cold expression. Something was obviously wrong.</p><p>“Did Paul Matthews ever exhibit any unsettling behaviors? Specifically did he ever show evidence of violence or anger?”</p><p><em>The fuck kind of question was that?</em>  Schaeffer’s eyes tightened and Emma realized she had said that aloud and coughed.</p><p>“I mean, aside from buying our shitty coffee every day… no. He was kind of an awkward guy, but violent? I saw him pay triple the price of our coffee rather than mention that the sign had an error that day.” She may have given him coffee on the house for the next few days. Even paying up the ass for a single black coffee, he still tipped her $5, which was… really nice of him.</p><p>“I had suspected as such.” The colonel sighed but didn’t elaborate. She made an effort to grab the folder from her, but Emma pulled away.</p><p>“What. Happened. What happened to Paul?” PEIP wouldn’t have wasted time to bring Schaeffer here with all this shit if it wasn’t for something. She had waited weeks; she was not waiting any longer.</p><p>Maybe her laser eyes were manifesting, or the situation was that dire, because the colonel turned the tablet on and turned it towards her. The tablet showed footage of a computer room with a soldier sitting at one of the desks.  “Paul Matthews disappeared from PEIP’s observations two weeks ago. Since then, three of our soldiers were found dead. The most recent death had been caught on camera. You don’t have to watch this; I'd even advise against it honestly, but you should know: the suspect is our missing man.”</p><p>There was no fucking way Paul could have fucking done that. Dude was as intimidating as a sand block; put him under a little pressure and he completely fell apart. But she knew how brave he could be when people needed him to step up. Going to try to save his friend’s kid and then right after coming back and saving her and his other friend’s life. Fuck, she may or may not have had guilt issues in making him blow up the meteorite. Anyhow, the point she was trying to make was that it was completely improbable.</p><p>~<em>It’s inevitable…~ </em></p><p>Well, things did change… She pushed the memory out of her mind with a well-practiced skill earned over long nights and pressed the play button.</p><p>---</p><p>It could only be described as disconcerting; if she really had to put it into words, it would have been something like a lanky ass Winter Soldier from the Avengers movies stabbing the shit out of a dude as a weird and morbid form of interpretive dance. It was oddly rhythmic and in time to a song no one but the stabber could hear. Speaking of the lanky ass Winter Solider, all he needed was longer hair and a metal arm and he could have probably won some Halloween constume contests or something. He was obviously Paul (horrifyingly enough), but with some kind of bulky face mask over the lower part of his face, something in his ear, and in some form of black ops attire. The last few seconds before the feed went dark, he had approached the camera. Glowing eyes that stared at the camera looked dead or at the very least, like no one was fucking home. Even in that nightmarish sequence in the Clivesdale hospital, he had more life (unlife?) in his eyes than in these last few seconds of footage. She may have known Paul for all of one and a half days (not including coffee time), but this couldn’t be him. But it was, and she had no fucking idea why.</p><p>Emma took a few moments to gather herself before looking back at the colonel. Schaeffer, to her credit waited until she wasn’t thinking about her near-death experiences before pulling the tablet back towards her and pressing a few buttons. “The victim was able to pull an alarm before succumbing to his wounds. Unfortunately, the suspect was able to escape though we’re unsure how exactly. We had a second camera in the room that he didn’t catch, but it’s..." She paused, eyes a little unfocused, "unclear.”</p><p>The second video was the same footage, just a different point of view. She tuned out the stabbing part, but mentally checked back in when the first camera was destroyed. Emma watched as Paul moved on top of one the desks to push the ceiling tiles up and climb up and out. It was pretty fucking clear how he did it, what was the issue? In case she missed something, she rewound the video.</p><p>This time, he left back the way he came in.</p><p>“What the fuck.” She watched it a few more times, with the methods changing on camera several times. This was weird as shit. She heard the colonel cough to get her attention, but she kept rewinding it. She kept watching him leave the room in a different method than before. Even the same method went through several renditions, like starting on his right foot rather than his left.</p><p>Her head started pounding, but she was missing something and wasn’t going to stop until she figured it out.</p><p>“Kelly- “No, she was so damn close. There were only so many ways to leave the room. He could only leave three ways and one of them was through a window on the 7<sup>th</sup> floor. That wasn’t possible. He couldn’t have left through the main door; the alarms were going off.</p><p><em>But…</em> a voice in her head suggested, <em>she didn’t know what tools he had. He could have prepared a rope for the window. He could have had something outside the door to help him escape…</em> No, that couldn’t be… <em>But it could happen… You don’t know… </em>No, why would he have gone through the front door if he could go by window? He didn’t know about the camera until afterwards, they could have known what he looked like if he left by door… It didn’t make sense any way she looked at it.<em> Could the ceiling really hold him up there, Emma?  </em>What were these damn thoughts going on about? He wasn’t on the cameras if he left by door. And any jackass could see a random dude hanging on the side of the 7<sup>th</sup> floor especially if alarms were blaring.</p><p>Something snapped in her brain, and it was like all the videos overlaid on top of each other. She could clearly see him escape through the ceiling, with all the other options faded to transparency.</p><p>“EMMA!” she could feel someone shaking her. She almost threw the person into a chokehold until she realized where she was.</p><p>She was in a coffee shop and she was talking to Colonel Schaeffer. “Oh shit!”</p><p>Once again, to the colonel’s credit, the woman slowly moved back to her seat making sure Emma could see her hands and movements clearly. “Are you ok, Kelly? You weren’t responding to any communication.”</p><p>Emma took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. She hated lukewarm coffee. How long had she been looking at the tablet? She could hear the woman mutter to herself, “maybe this wasn’t a good idea…”</p><p>She interjected, “No, no! It’s fine! He went through the ceiling! I saw it!” It was clear as day now.</p><p>The colonel raised an eyebrow at her, “You have seen the other methods correct?” She played it again, half away from her (maybe just in case she zoned out again), but she could clearly see him go through the ceiling again.</p><p>“Yeah, but it cleared up?” Another repeat and it was the same. “Yeah, like it makes sense now. He went through the ceiling. I don’t see the other videos anymore.”</p><p>Both eyebrows raised at her, but she continued. “Yeah, I mean I had my doubts. Weird doubts, but once you get past all of them, it disappeared?”</p><p>Schaeffer repeated the video again and looked back at her with a weird look that lasted long enough to feel just a little awkward. “Weird doubts?” Schaeffer finally asked.</p><p>“I uh… don’t know. They were weird so I fought with my mind and I beat the shit out of it and won?”</p><p>Emma was honestly expecting Weird Look 2: Electric Boogaloo and awkward silence, but an eagle screech came from the colonel’s pocket. Schaeffer sighed and started to collect her folders. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now.” She put the folders into her bag but paused to take a look at her. "I’ll be honest with you, Kel- Emma. I only came here to see because we were desperate for any lead with this investigation. There was a possibility that he faked all his psychological tests or snapped mentally under the strain of the infection. As you are the only person capable of talking about Paul Matthews without bursting into song and dance, you’re all we had.”</p><p>She grabbed her tablet and put that in her bag as well. “You are under a witness protection program and was given everything you needed to start over. To live a normal life away from what you have experienced. But this could change, if you wanted.”</p><p>Schaeffer stood up and made a motion for Emma to follow her out of the store. A black car pulled up on the curbside as she continued. “You don’t have to say yes. I would completely understand considering the circumstances that you were in. But if you want to help save the world and find Paul Matthews, this is your best chance.”</p><p>She pulled a card from her pocket. The symbol on it was oddly cute for a military branch, a red, white, and blue marshmallow eagle peep. “How would you like to join PEIP?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>~Why the long face, Paul? You did such a gooooood job. I even have a special present for yooooou.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What? You don’t want it? Is this how you treat all your friends? Isn’t this what you WANTED?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You had your chance and fucked it all up already! But I got you the next best thing! Because aren’t we bestest fweeeeends?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, you wonder why this is happening to you PaAauULLLlll? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And what a stupid question to wonder. Silly, silly man: this happened to you because it happened that way.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You don’t understand, do you? Then, I ask you one question: Does it really matter?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It could have been any of you that had their connection to the Hive severed with those bullets. It could have been all of you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It could also have been none of you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The possibilities <strong>were</strong> endless, Paul. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know of times where there wasn’t a meteor. You all died anyway, stupid, scared, and pathetic.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There were times where you won. Ripped her from limb to limb with a smile on your face. You were so happy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There were times where you lost. Blown to bits, along with the theater itself. Mourned only by one who had no one to mourn her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There were even times when it wasn’t you. There were times when your dear Emma or Bill stepped into that theater to face their doom. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But it doesn’t matter what those times were, does it? In the end, it was you. It is you, Pauuulll. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And those other possibilities? So many of those delightful possibilities…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em>They were delicious.~</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>---</em> </strong>
</p><p>The sun had already gone down, but Emma laid on her bed fiddling with the card that she had been given. A card for an agency that didn’t exist and fought things that shouldn’t exist.</p><p>They gave a ride back to her house and a week to decide. To take the new life that she made for herself and burn it all to the ground. Schaeffer herself had described it as a “one-way trip”.</p><p>Her initial thoughts were to just toss it in the trash. She would be the first person to declare that a good person was the last thing she was. Hell, if she had to rank herself, she’d probably put herself somewhere between mediocre and kind of a POS. Being a good person was more her sister’s thing. And in all seriousness, how much good could she actually do?</p><p>She sure as shit wasn’t military trained, was described by Zoey as “fucking terrible at following orders”, and barely gave a crap about anything. Getting out of Hatchetfield was pure fucking luck and all she really accomplished was convincing a guy to go on a suicide mission for a chance at saving the world. Which by current events, only made it worse.</p><p>Being on the front lines to defend against something that they didn’t even fully explain; the fuck was she supposed to do? Get the bad guy really fucking high? She didn’t even have full range in her left leg yet. At best, she could manage a brisk walk. At worst, she might as well just kiss her ass goodbye. It was partly the reason why she’d been taking BJJ classes; it didn’t involve kicks.</p><p>Schaeffer had mentioned that it wasn’t necessarily physical strength that was important, though that did help. But even if it was intelligence or god forbid an emotional maturity, there were far more capable people out there. People that hadn’t already gone through one ridiculous apocalypse (If people ever asked, she’d tell them: the world didn’t end with a bang, it ended with a goddamn kick line).</p><p>All in all, this was a bad idea and she should just throw the card away, tend to her farm, and live the best life she could have.</p><p>But she wouldn't be considering if she really, truly believed that. Although not a good person, she wasn't a bad one either. And she did solve the issue of the footage. Somehow pierced through all the possibilities to the truth. Schaeffer may allow some... attitude quirks to slide considering she was one being invited into their super secret shit. She also did promise at a graveyard that she’d do better. Be a better person. Couldn't get much better than saving the damn world. And there was someone out there who had given her a fuck-ton of tips and had saved her life without hesistation who hadn’t been given a second chance like she did. She did hate owing people things... </p><p>Before she made her decision, orange light flashed through her window and with it, smoke and a familiar scent. Burning cannabis.</p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>---</p><p>He didn’t want this. He fought with every fiber of his being, but he’d been relegated to a corner of his mind once the music started.</p><p>
  <em>~Dies irae, Dies illa~</em>
</p><p>Paul watched as his body stepped through a door <em>(that he knew led to a broom closet) </em>and out across the street from a house with a large farm adjacent to it. From what he could see, the house was significantly farther away from its neighbors. If anything happened, it would take time for them to figure out what was happening. Shit.</p><p>~<em>Solvent saeclum in favilla~</em></p><p>He could see a light on the second floor. She had to still be awake.</p><p>
  <em>~Quantas tremor est futurus~</em>
</p><p>His right hand moved towards the ‘gift’ that they had given him. His other hand moved to the pin.  </p><p>
  <em>~Quando Judex est venturus~</em>
</p><p>The music swelled in his ear, compelling him to pull it. The pin dropped to the ground.</p><p>
  <em>~Kyrie Eleison~</em>
</p><p>His arm moved backwards; grenade primed. He didn’t want this. He wasn’t particularly known as a violent man, but here he was kicking and screaming against the cage they tossed him in. There was one thing that he wanted, the one thing that the Hive had to rip and tear from his dying lips.  </p><p>
  <strong> <em>~Kyrie Eleison…~</em> </strong>
</p><p>He only had mere moments before it flew. <em>“You can’t have this. You can’t have <strong>her</strong>.” </em>He roared to the void, desperately praying that someone would find him and stop him. They could kill him if they had to, just stop him!</p><p>……………</p><p>
  <strong> <em>”(@//!(@^]*!ж$ФДДЎ)” </em> </strong>
</p><p>What the fuck. What could only be described as complete gibberish ran through in his mind as something thin scrapped against his brain. Light brushes as if looking for something. It slowed and then pushed lightly on <em>FIRE- OH GOD, something moved in his FUCKING BRA-MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT-</em></p><p>His body jerked and his throw went wide. It landed in the field and exploded in a flash of orange light and fire. Paul could hear muffled screaming as his legs almost gave out. He locked his knees and then realized what had happened. The music kept blaring but he tuned it out as best as he could.</p><p>Okay, he had this. The song played louder in his ear, begging him to set the house alight. He took a step towards the house trying to get the earpiece off of him. His arms wouldn’t obey him. Fuck it then. He just needed his legs. <em>What if this was temporary?</em></p><p>Okay. Another step and another. How long had he been moving; minutes? Hours? He stood at the door. <em>He was going to hurt her.</em></p><p>Okay. He couldn’t knock. His leg jerked at the door. <em>She could help him.</em></p><p>Okay. Pushing away the music that was louder than his thoughts, he could hear someone moving down steps. <em>If the music was gone, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.</em></p><p>Okay. <em>He just had to hold on a little longer. </em></p><p>---</p><p>She could smell some of her cannabis burning, but before she could look out her window to see what the hell was going on, she heard a pounding at her door.</p><p>She quickly rushed down the stairs and looked through the peephole. Her neighbors rarely if ever came this far up to her place, much to her relief. And it was late as hell. Who'd be knocking at this time?</p><p>It took a moment to look, followed by a moment to register who was at her door. Oh fuck.</p><p>The missing man himself was standing at her fucking doorstep. Standing at her doorstep and doing a weird jerky kick to the door every ten seconds. <em>Why wasn’t he using his hands?</em> Glowing blue eyes, but rather than the dead look he had given at the camera, the expression he gave to the door now looked more exhausted than anything else.</p><p>Could she beat Paul in a fight? Before she saw what he had done, that would have been an easy yes. She would have easily kicked his pastsy office ass anyday. Now however… she’d put her odds at around (probably) 70%. Just in case however, she backed into the kitchen and grabbed a kitchen knife.</p><p>“Paul, is that really you?” Might as well ask. He knew she was in here. She moved towards her cellphone and sent a quick text to PEIP.</p><p>The light kicking stopped, and she could hear muffled sounds come from the door. Moving towards the peephole again, she could see Paul glaring at himself, looking frustrated. His arms still were at his side, twitching slightly. He gently kicked the door and looked at the peephole for a few seconds as if waiting for her to look before nodding at it several times.</p><p>The last time she had saw him face to face had haunted her dreams for weeks.</p><p>“You still like musicals?” But he wasn’t dancing and obviously couldn’t sing with that mask on his face. A faint hope blossomed in her chest.</p><p>He gave the peephole a deadpan look before wincing. She could see something in his left ear as he shook his head side to side. It could be a trick. This could be an opportunity for her to let her guard down, open the door, and get freaking stabbed to death.</p><p>But if it was all a trick, this was quite possibly the most outlandish thing that he could have done. Set fire to her fucking farm and then knock on her door? She had a backdoor through her kitchen and by all appearances didn’t look blocked off or trapped. He didn’t even have a knife in his hands. Was he intending on just strangling her or if he couldn't use his arms, kicking her head to death? This had to be the oddest murder scheme in the world if that was his intention. </p><p>Fuck it. She had a (probably) 70% chance of winning. Still a passing grade.</p><p>---</p><p>After a few minutes of silence from the door (the music just kept getting louder, <em>just keep ignoring it</em>), the door opened just a bit, but he couldn’t see Emma until she peaked her head behind it.</p><p>“…Paul?” He wondered what he looked like on her doorstep. If he looked similar to how he felt, he'd probably look like shit. </p><p>He still couldn’t say anything; the things in his mask preventing speech, but Paul nodded all the same. </p><p>Emma slowly made her way around the door, duct tape and knife in hand. He tried to move his arms for her but then had to force them to stay still as she taped them together. When she finished, she went behind him and told him that he was, “too fucking tall, could you help me out sometime today?”. Obliging, he soon heard ripping and clicking behind his head. She then turned to face him and gently pulled the mask off, relieving the pressure inside his mouth, before throwing it to the ground.</p><p>After a few moments to breathe fresh air, he whispered his first few words since… he couldn’t remember. “That thing in my ear. Could you take that off, please?”</p><p>The song still desperately blaring in his ear fell silent as she pulled the earpiece from his head. She looked at it with disgust, before smashing it with her heel. She did the same to the mask contraption before looking back at him.</p><p>They stared at each other for a few seconds, until he broke eye contact first.</p><p>Where did you even start with someone who you tried to kill under the influence of a meteorite hivemind that really loved musicals? What did you even say to someone after you almost burned their house to the ground? He could only guess that it'd probably be: 1. You didn't and 2. Nothing. Paul sure as shit didn’t know. </p><p>But Paul was never one to take the lead. He felt warm arms surround him and a wetness on his shirt. "Okay?" he heard quietly into his chest with a little bit of trembling. Oh. He remembered the last time they had embraced. </p><p>"...Okay." He could feel that same wetness on his face as he leaned into her as best he could.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Songs referenced:<br/>Paris Burning - The Hunchback of Notre Dame</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>